


The Sounds of Breaking

by fuzipenguin



Series: Trending on the Edge [4]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Open Relationships, Other, Sensory Deprivation, Sounding, genital punishment, sensory heightening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 09:46:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5661814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/pseuds/fuzipenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jazz wants something. Bluestreak wants to give it to him. Ratchet has all the answers, even ones Bluestreak didn't know he needed</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sounds of Breaking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dracoqueen22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/gifts).



> My very first commission! Thank you, dracoqueen22!

                “So to what do I owe the pleasure, Blue?” Ratchet asked, settling himself into his office chair. “It’s been a while since you graced me with your presence,” he added, placing an elbow on the chair arm and propping his chin atop his palm. He stared at Bluestreak with an amused glint in his optics.

                “I was here two days ago!” Bluestreaker protested, pointing over his shoulder to the treatment room. He threw a quick glance in that direction as well, incidentally confirming that the door was locked. Normally they had conversations like this one in Ratchet’s private quarters in the officers’ wing. But the medic was busy all the way up through next week with the crew’s routine maintenances, so Ratchet had arranged for them to meet in his office, in between appointments.

                 “For your maintenance check,” Ratchet returned, raising an orbital ridge in challenge. “You haven’t spoken to me about the life style in over a year _and_ you haven’t visited me for a session in twice that. Your little troublemaker keeping you busy?”

                Feeling oddly chastised, Bluestreak ducked his head and wriggled a little, trying to find a comfortable position for his sensory panels while sitting in the high backed visitor chair. “He needs a heavy hand. Often.”

                “Oh, I have no doubt,” Ratchet said, grinning. “So what do _you_ need? Something in general or specific to Jazz?”

                “A little bit of both, actually,” Bluestreak admitted. “Jazz discovered a human sex act that interested him and asked me about doing it. I think it’s translatable to our species, but I’ve never practiced it. I thought you might know a little more.”

                “Hmm. Do you have a file to show me?”

                Bluestreak nodded and sent the materials he had gathered over a private bandwidth. Ratchet’s optics unfocused for several seconds as he perused the information. Then his expression cleared and he nodded thoughtfully. “Humans call it sounding. We call it channeling, referencing the transfluid channel. Not a well-known kink, so I’m not surprised you haven’t run across it before. Fortunately, as it originates from a medical procedure, I’m actually quite familiar with the practice.”

                “Have you done it yourself?” Bluestreak asked, giving up on the chair and leaning forward, elbows on his knees as he supported his chin atop laced together fingers.

                “Both as a recipient and a giver,” Ratchet replied, nodding. “It has a certain level of risk involved, so you have to explicitly trust the mech performing it. There’s very few I’ve allowed to do it to me. Nevertheless, it can be a pretty good time.”

                Bluestreak’s nasal ridge wrinkled. “Mmm. It’s not that appealing to me, personally. But Jazz brought it up, so it must hit some buttons for him. All right, so what do I need to know?”

                Ratchet hesitated briefly before speaking. “I think you should have a trial run.”

                Bluestreak blinked in surprise at his mentor. “Really? It’s _that_ risky?”

                “It can be. Transfluid channels have a very small circumference and a surprising amount of sensors. I would feel more comfortable if you actually experienced it yourself before doing it to Jazz.”

                “Well… ok.”

                Ratchet was right; their conversations involving alternative interfacing had slaked off over the past few years as Bluestreak had become more confident in his own knowledge and skills. And as his and Jazz’s relationship deepened, Bluestreak had become focused on Jazz’s needs. It would be nice to sit back and let someone else take charge for a change, even if it was guised as a teaching session for something he wasn’t personally interested in.

                “When can you fit me into your busy schedule?” Bluestreak eagerly asked.

                Ratchet grinned, an unexpectedly devilish expression. Maybe Bluestreak wasn’t the only one excited at the thought of a scene between the two of them. “Oh, for this? I’ll make time.”

 

\--

                “Really?”

                Bluestreak gave the blindfold in Ratchet’s hands a skeptical glance. Ratchet propped his hands on his hips and gave Bluestreak an arch look. “What?”

                “Why the blindfold? What does that have to do with channeling?” Bluestreak questioned, nodding at the dark cloth.

                “Absolutely nothing. Now shut your mouth and hold still like a good boy, alright?” Ratchet chided, whipping the cloth out in front of him and making a show of folding it over several times to thicken the material.

                “Not like I have much choice, is there?” Bluestreak muttered, testing his bonds once more.

                Ratchet had gone all out today, for reasons he wouldn’t elaborate on. Bluestreak’s legs were spread wide, cuffed and held apart by a spreader bar. The bar itself was clipped into two hooks set into the floor; Bluestreak could only lift his feet or move them to the side by an inch or two. His wrists were encircled by thick metal bands and connected by a second spreader bar. Chains leading from the cuffs to the ceiling kept his arms stretched taut and largely immobile.

                “Nope!” Ratchet replied cheerfully. “I have you completely at my mercy. I have to admit, I’ve missed that,” he murmured, stepping forward. Their bumpers brushed against one another and Bluestreak shivered from the touch of Ratchet’s warmed windshield.

                “It’s been too long, hasn’t it?” Bluestreak commented, unable to resist arching forward to rub against that slick glass. Ratchet’s familiar field flirted against his, and Bluestreak ex-vented a soft sigh. He had missed this too; why hadn’t he reached out to Ratchet sooner?

                “Mmhm. Tilt your head down a bit,” Ratchet instructed, bringing the blindfold up. Bluestreak did as commanded, willing to play along despite his previous show of impertinence. This was a very loosely structured scene, less of a true power exchange and more demonstration. Ratchet had still insisted on a safe word however, especially as Bluestreak was unable to free himself. He really doubted he would need it, though.

                Moments later, Ratchet tied the blindfold tightly at the back of Bluestreak’s head. It was surprisingly effective at blocking his visual sensors and his doorwings arched upwards, swaying a little as his processor compensated for the lack of optical input.

                “Hmm. Thought you might do that,” Ratchet murmured.

                Bluestreak cocked his head to the side. “Do what?” he asked. Although he had been blindfolded before, this was the first time while bound so completely. It was slightly unnerving.

                “These,” Ratchet replied, moving away to step behind Bluestreak. Warm digits slid along the top edges of Bluestreak’s panels and they twitched, pressing upwards into that knowing touch. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

                “Huh?” Bluestreak questioned intelligently, utterly confused. Ratchet’s hands fell away, and Bluestreak increased his audial input as his mentor walked in the direction of his ‘toy closet’. After some banging and muttered cursing, Ratchet returned, although not before moving around the rest of the room and pausing near his desk and his berth.

                “What are you planning, old mech?” Bluestreak taunted in the face of nervous anticipation. “You know I can take it.”

                “Oh, I know,” Ratchet rumbled amidst a hearty chuckle. “That’s what I’m counting on, actually. I’m coming up behind you,” he warned, a few spark beats before he stepped between Bluestreak’s wings.

                There was a brush against Bluestreak’s left top-most hinge and then firm fingers gripped the wing base and held it still as something was wound around it. It felt soft… almost like a fuzzy blanket. The cloth was wrapped around both upper and lower hinges, the process repeating on the opposite panel. Then both were gently tugged parallel to one another until only a foot of air separated them. Ratchet hummed quietly the whole time, his fingers continuing to manipulate the soft material and Bluestreak’s wings.

                Finally, Ratchet stepped back, gently patting Bluestreak’s shoulder. “There. Try and move them around for me.”

                Bluestreak experimentally twitched his wings, slowly realizing that the sensitive edges were perpendicular to his dorsum and the panels were nearly as immobilized as his arms and legs. The uneasy feeling grew, and he couldn’t suppress the quiet whine which bubbled up in his throat.

                “Hey, now… are you all right?” Ratchet asked, bending forward a little to speak lowly into Bluestreak’s audial.

                For a brief moment, Bluestreak’s ventilations stuttered, and he struggled against the weight of the memories his processor helpfully supplied him with. Then the familiar edges of Ratchet’s field pressed against his, reminding Bluestreak of where he was and who he was with.

                He unclenched the fists he had subconsciously made and nodded. “Yes, Ratchet,” he replied, proud that his voice only shook a little.

                “Very good, Blue,” Ratchet said, letting his hands drop to Bluestreak’s waist and squeezing gently. “You might think about trying something like this with Jazz if you haven’t already. A little sensory play can be quite exciting.

                “Both deprivation _and_ heightening.”

                Ratchet’s hands stroked up Bluestreak’s sides and then he stepped aside. Bluestreak heard a moist squelching sound just before something cold was slathered along the ends of Bluestreak’s sensory wings. He yelped at the unexpected sensation and shivered a little. His processor had automatically upped the strength of those exposed sensors, heightening their input to compensate for the others’ muffling. Which meant that the substance Ratchet had just applied was registering far colder than it likely was.

                “Wh… what was that?” Bluestreak questioned, reflexively flicking his panels and letting out a frustrated grunt when they couldn’t obey his commands.  

                “A present. Got a few more for you, too,” Ratchet replied, stepping even further away. A moment later, Bluestreak startled when he heard a click and a whirl behind him. His plating ruffled as a soft gust of air traveled sideways across his back, right at sensory panel level. The breeze returned on the same path, moving in the opposite direction and past his frame. It took an embarrassingly long time for Bluestreak to realize that Ratchet had placed an oscillating fan behind him.  

                In the meantime, Ratchet had circled around to Bluestreak’s front, clasping his chin and using his grip to lift his helm. Bluestreak’s optics strained to pierce his blindfold, but he saw only the faintest impression of movement.

                Ratchet pressed a brief kiss against Bluestreak’s mouth, a quick nip of denta against his lower lip making him moan appreciatively. Then Ratchet drew back, prompting Bluestreak to pout.

                “I thought you said you had more presents for me,” Bluestreak purred coyly. Ratchet was an incredible kisser, and Bluestreak wouldn’t have minded a little more lip action from his mentor.

                “Absolutely,” Ratchet replied. But instead of leaning back in, there was a cold swipe of wetness along first one point of Bluestreak’s chevron and then the other.

                “Ratchet!” Bluestreak protested, turning his head too late.

                The medic chuckled, bopping Bluestreak on the nose. “Trust me, youngin’. Have I ever led you astray?”

                Bluestreak snorted. “Some would say that is the very definition of our relationship.”

                “I don’t care about others say. Just what you think,” Ratchet replied, his hands landing on Bluestreak’s waist again. Ratchet’s thumbs traced the edges of Bluestreak’s pelvic seams, pressing against them lightly.

                “I think… that I have quite enjoyed you leading me astray,” Bluestreak said, flashing a smile towards where he thought Ratchet’s faceplates were. He shivered a little as Ratchet’s hands dipped lower, stroking his pelvic span.  

                 “You want me to open?” Bluestreak questioned, gently bumping his hips forward as well as he could.

                 Ratchet chuckled. “Eager, are you? Thought you said channeling wasn’t all that appealing to you?”

                 Bluestreak attempted to shrug and found that his arms were too restricted. “It’s not. But you’ve never not shown me a fun time, so…”

                 “Good to know,” Ratchet purred, leaning forward and brushing his lips along the curve of Bluestreak’s jaw until his nasal ridge bumped against Bluestreak’s audial receptor. Bluestreak shivered at the sensation, the chill breeze sweeping his back highlighting Ratchet’s warmth pressing against Bluestreak’s ventrum. “I want your valve bared, but keep your spike unpopped. No matter what.”

                 “What? Why?” He wasn’t the expert here, but Bluestreak was pretty sure channeling required a spike. One that was out and pressurized, not tucked away behind a panel.

                 A little confused, he shivered again as the fan behind him made another turn. Had Ratchet placed a block of ice in front of it in order to produce such a cold breeze? Surely his sensors weren’t that confused?  

                 “Always questioning,” Ratchet remarked, nipping at the side of Bluestreak’s throat. “I thought I had trained you better than that.”

                 Behind the blindfold, Bluestreak rolled his optics. “Yes, Master. I’m sorry, Master, I’ll be good,” he intoned.

                 A sudden slap to his interface panel made Bluestreak choke out a garbled sound, hips jerking backwards from the unexpected blow. “You damn well better, kid,” Ratchet growled into Bluestreak’s audial, the warning rev of the medic’s engine causing Bluestreak’s spark to pulse a little faster.

                 Almost unbidden, Bluestreak’s interface cover clicked aside, the panel over his port irising open with a soft whirr. Ratchet made a pleased hum in response, hand immediately sliding between Bluestreak’s spread legs to palm his valve.

                 “Good slave,” Ratchet murmured. Bluestreak’s port clenched at the praise. “I’m going to overload you through your valve first,” Ratchet explained. “So you’re relaxed before I begin the channeling and I don’t have to wait for a refractory period with your spike.”

                 “Oh,” Bluestreak replied in a small voice. That… made sense. He _was_ a little nervous, after all.

                 He waited for Ratchet to say or do something next, but a minute passed and he continued to just stand there, his hand covering Bluestreak’s valve. The anticipation was honestly quite delicious, and his port steadily built up a nice amount of lubricant that dripped down into Ratchet’s hand. But nothing was happening that would push him into a climax.

                 “Soooo… _how_ are you going to overload me?” Bluestreak finally ventured after another minute of listening to Ratchet’s calm and measured ventilations. Ratchet’s fingers twitched against the port rim as he chuffed out a laugh.

                 “You’ll see. Should be kicking in pretty soon, actually.”

                 Bluestreak tilted his head a little in confusion. “What are you…”

                 He trailed off when the next oscillation of the fan blew yet another gust of cool air across his trapped doorwings. He had almost gotten used to the sensation, his processor anticipating each back and forth sweep and shunting aside the sensory input as unimportant. But on this last pass, the air brushing across his panels felt… different. Closer almost. As if Ratchet had reached back and ghosted his hand along the edges. Bluestreak’s orbital ridges furrowed beneath the blindfold as he awaited the next draught of air.

                 When it came, Bluestreak shuddered a little. That was…

                 “Hmmm. Just on time…” Ratchet murmured.

                 Bluestreak paid him no mind, all his attention now trained on the sensations his doorwings were feeding him. They tingled… warm little licks of heat that burst within his sensors every time the fan blew air across them. Each breeze seemed to build on the one prior to it, charge slowly accumulating from the unusual stimulation.

                 “How you doing, kid?” Ratchet asked, shifting against him. Ratchet drew in a large vent and then blew it out, the warm air teasing over the right side of his chevron.

                 Bluestreak moaned, jaw dropping at the surge of pleasure the action produced. “You… that stuff…”

                 “Mmm,” Ratchet replied, humming a pleased affirmation. “Your doorwings and chevron are the most sensitized parts of your frame. I just upped that a little….” Ratchet explained as the next motion of the fan made Bluestreak softly cry out.

                 He unconsciously leaned backward, straining to get his sensory panels closer to the tantalizing breeze. Bluestreak was so focused on anticipating the next rotation of the machine that he forgot about the palm covering his valve. Fortunately, Ratchet was there to remind him.

                 The medic drew his hand away a short distance before slapping it upwards, right in time to the air directly washing over his charged up sensors. Bluestreak jolted in place, shuddering. “Oh, frag,” he whispered brokenly. He had always enjoyed a little pain mixed with his pleasure and that hit had been just _perfect_.  

                 Ratchet ran his index finger around Bluestreak’s entrance, digit tip slipping a little in the accumulated slickness. “Mmm. Not yet. Maybe later. You like this?”

                 Another light slap, and Bluestreak’s hips thrusted forwards towards his brilliant mentor. “Yes!”

                 “Thought you might,” Ratchet replied with an amused chuckle. He shifted against Bluestreak’s front, heavily ex-venting against his throbbing chevron again. And now Bluestreak was lost, trying to contort himself in his bonds to push his valve and chevron closer to Ratchet while angling his wings as best as he could towards the fan. He growled as the cuffs and spreaders prevented him from doing more than wiggling ineffectually.

                 Ratchet laughed again, lightly mocking. “I like it when you flail around like that.”

                 “Ratch… et!” Bluestreak’s voice began as a protest but spiraled up into a warbling cry as his partner slapped his valve a little harder, swollen nub receiving a direct jolt from Ratchet’s palm. _Pit_ , that was good.

                 “Yes, little Blue? Is there something you want?” Ratchet inquired, voice innocent. Bluestreak didn’t believe it for a second; not with the way Ratchet’s frame was jostling against his in suppressed laughter.

                 “More!” Bluestreak demanded, another waft of air causing his vents to stutter. Charge was building exponentially, coiling up tight in his lower belly. His processor had long since memorized the fan’s pattern of motion and every time the little machine made that ‘click’ sound that indicated it was turning back around, Bluestreak tensed in anticipation. He waited, fingers clenching in little spasms. The first tendril of moving air touched his aching panels, and he began trembling.  

                 “Here it comes,” Ratchet whispered, pressing against Bluestreak’s front again. “Think you can overload from that alone?”

                 Bluestreak barely acknowledged Ratchet’s words, or even the hand petting Bluestreak’s valve rim. The air was getting stronger, closer, the flames consuming his panels licking higher… and higher…

                 And then the blaze faded as the fan moved on, Bluestreak thrashing in his bonds to chase after its teasing breeze.

                 “Aww, not yet, I suppose. Want me to help you along?” Ratchet inquired. His finger traced Bluestreak’s anterior node once, twice, before slapping it hard. Bluestreak arched, keening a little as the sharp sting traveled up his back struts.

                 “Oh, frag… frag, Ratchet…” Bluestreak gasped. “Please. I’m close, please.”

                 “Oh, I know you are,” Ratchet said smugly, dipping one finger into Bluestreak’s port. He barely felt it, only now realizing just how wet and open he was. He clenched down around the digit, hips urgently rocking his valve atop Ratchet’s finger, wishing it was his spike, or a toy, or anything else which could give him relief. “It’s coming back around again… maybe this time?”

                 “I hate you,” Bluestreak ground out between clenched data, straining backwards towards the fan.

                 Suddenly his right chevron horn was engulfed in something tight and wet, sliding down to the base and back up again. He jerked into the touch with an agonized whine, trying to chase after it.

                 “Do you now?” Ratchet replied and Bluestreak could practically hear the smirk. He honestly could care less because Ratchet’s hand was back at Bluestreak’s valve, lightly patting, each blow gaining in intensity. He was so focused on the lingering sensation at his chevron and the building charge within his valve that he lost track of what was happening behind him. The fan’s direct gust of air suddenly swirled around his panels, seeming to reach through the plating and directly caress each individual sensor.

                 With one last blow to his nub Bluestreak overloaded, legs quivering as he ground his pelvis down against Ratchet’s palm. The pleasure spread through him like a tidal wave and he moaned loudly, the sound spiraling up in a shout as the fan rotated back, air dragging over his hypersensitive panels.

                 “Stop… stop the… fan… too much!” he gasped out, struggling to move his wings out of the generated stream of wind.  

                 With a final caress to the slick valve in his palm, Ratchet moved around Bluestreak, walking behind him. The fan’s quiet motor tapered off and finally died away, and Bluestreak sagged in relief.

                 His wings were verging on _too_ sensitized. Even the slight shifting of air from the overhead ventilation ducts registered against his panels, sending flashes of sweet, lingering agony through them. He did his best to ventilate evenly and wondered how long whatever magical cream Ratchet had used would last.

                 As if reading his processor, Ratchet stepped up behind Bluestreak and gently gripped the base of one sensory wing, holding it still as a thick cloth was carefully wiped along the edge.

                  “This works through direct contact; you’ll have some lingering sensitivity over the next half hour or so, but nothing to the extent you just experienced,” Ratchet explained, following the first cloth with a wet rag to completely remove the enhancer. A thin, soft cloth was finally used to dry off Bluestreak’s wing. The process was repeated with the second sensory panel, Bluestreak twitching madly beneath Ratchet’s confident, yet quick, administrations.

                  “Is… is it safe to use on interfacing equipment?” Bluestreak asked, his entire body quivering beneath Ratchet’s touch. It was both painfully arousing yet soothing at the same time, and he felt an overspill of lubricant trickle down his inner thigh.

                  “It is. Have something in mind?” Ratchet questioned.

                  “There’s not really a whole lot left in my mind, right now,” Bluestreak admitted, sighing gratefully when Ratchet seemingly finished cleanup of the panels. Fingers trailing along Bluestreak’s waist, Ratchet returned to Bluestreak’s front.

                  A firm hand wrapped itself around the nape of Bluestreak’s neck and a downwards pressure encouraged him to bend his head forward. He did so with a small moan, his valve weakly clenching on nothing. The last time he had been blindfolded, Ratchet had guided Bluestreak’s mouth down onto Ratchet’s spike with that very same grip.

                  Ah, good times.

                  “Well, I guess I’ll just have to finish the job. Expose your spike for me,” Ratchet instructed, carefully repeating the cleaning process on Bluestreak’s chevron. It was a little easier to tolerate than his doorwings, both for the smaller surface area and the fact that it hadn’t been as stimulated as his sensory panels. And just as Ratchet had said, their sensitivity was beginning to fade, leaving them throbbing pleasantly.

                  Bluestreak did as instructed, letting his spike cover slide aside with a little relieved sigh. He had been hard behind his panel for quite a while now, but the confinement kept him from a dual overload, just as Ratchet had wanted. Now that some of his earlier tension had been washed away by pleasure, Bluestreak was a little less apprehensive about the upcoming channeling.

                  “Excellent,” Ratchet commented, finishing up with Bluestreak’s chevron. There was a brief waft of air and Bluestreak startled at the loud ‘thwack’ a few feet away. The cloths, Bluestreak realized. Ratchet had tossed them aside to land on the floor. “You ready for the next part?”

                  “Yes, Master,” Bluestreak automatically replied, his tone much more respectful this time around.

                  Ratchet’s pedes scuffed lightly against the decking as he strode away, off to Bluestreak’s right. He began walking back, a rhythmic squeaking following him. Bluestreak’s orbital ridges furrowed under the blindfold at the odd, yet familiar sound.

                  Oh, yes! That was the dented wheel on one of the exam carts from the medical bay. Bluestreak had seen it when he had first arrived, but it had been covered with haphazard piles of cloth. He had assumed it was a reject from the medical ward; apparently it was Ratchet’s work bench for the evening.

                  Ratchet wheeled the cart close, pushing it off to Bluestreak’s right. He listened as the medic moved some things around atop the cart, hearing the occasional soft chime of metal against metal and the squirt of liquid leaving a bottle. This seemed to go on for far longer than Bluestreak thought necessary. Was Ratchet deliberately prolonging things? Trying to ramp Bluestreak’s anticipation higher?

                  Well… it was working, damnit.

                  “How are your doorwings feeling?” Ratchet asked, startling Bluestreak after several minutes of silence from the medic.

                  Bluestreak thought about it. “Pleasantly warm. Chevron too.”

                  “Good. I don’t want to distract you from the channeling,” Ratchet remarked, his hand suddenly wrapping around Bluestreak’s spike. He hissed in surprise, hips reflexively canting forward at the firm grip.

                  “Hold still,” the medic commanded, and Bluestreak immediately locked down the joints in his hips and knees. “You have to be very still for this, understand?”

                  “I understand,” Bluestreak replied, his voice wavering on the last syllable as something warm and wet touched the head of his spike. After a few seconds, Bluestreak thought it might be Ratchet’s cupped palm, coated in lubricant. He circled the tip several times before using one digit to massage the transfluid channel opening, gathering up lubricant and gently pressing it against the hole. The grip on his shaft kept his spike in place, although Bluestreak couldn’t help the little excited twitches that traveled down its length.

                  “Very good. Alright, this is the first probe. Very thin. You shouldn’t have any trouble with it,” Ratchet informed him.

                  The wet fingers removed themselves from Bluestreak’s spike head, presumably to pick up the sound.

                  “Wait!” Bluestreak called out, feeling Ratchet pause mid-reach. Blustreak bent his head, optics straining against the dark confines of the blindfold. “Aren’t you going to take this off?”

                  “The blind? Nope. That’s staying. I just want you to _feel_ , Blue. I want you to experience the sensation first; we’ll go over the mechanics of things later,” Ratchet returned calmly. “All right, here’s the probe.”

                   Disgruntled, Bluestreak couldn’t help the frown that formed on his face as something cooler than Ratchet’s fingers circled the channel exit before pressing against the hole.

                   “Remember to keep still,” Ratchet said, voice low and distracted. Bluestreak suddenly understood why as the probe breached his channel, smoothly sliding inward a scant inch. His ire faded away as every circuit in his processor refocused onto his interface array. He’d had lovers use their glossa on the transfluid channel opening, but of course no one had able to penetrate it very far, merely press against it. That had been somewhat pleasurable, but this was different.

                   “Very good,” Ratchet praised, exerting a gentle pressure on the probe. It moved inward another inch, and Bluestreak lightly bit his bottom lip. “How does that feel?”

                   “… odd. Doesn’t hurt. It’s…” Bluestreak trailed off as Ratchet pulled on the probe, sliding it back out nearly to the end before pushing it forward again. It penetrated a little deeper this time, ghosting along the walls of his channel and stimulating sensors which had never really been touched before.

                  Bluestreak’s fingers spasmed.

                  “It’s different,” he admitted. “Kinda like someone is stroking the inside of my spike. But really lightly.”

                  The probe slid out a bit and then moved deeper. Bluestreak desperately wished he could see. He’d already lost track of how much of the probe was in him. How long was the thing anyway? How deep could it go?

                  “Well, like I said, this is the thinnest sound,” Ratchet replied. “I just want you to get used to the feeling before I up the circumference. Let me know if you need to stop.”

                  Bluestreak ex-vented, rolling his optics behind the blindfold. This was by no means the most dangerous thing he’d ever had done to him, but Ratchet was acting as if he was pouring miniaturized scraplets down his channel.

                  “I’m fine,” he intoned in a bored voice. To be honest, while it was a new and unique sensation, it wasn’t something that was really fueling his lust. He’d need something else soon or he would start to depressurize.  

                  “Brat,” Ratchet said fondly. “All right. Last little bit here,” he said and Bluestreak felt the probe sink deep. The cables in his lower abdomen clenched as… _something_ inside the base of his spike was nudged.

                  “You twitched a little there. Good or bad?” Ratchet asked immediately.

                  Bluestreak considered the question, trying to analyze the sensation. “Uh. Good… I think?”

                  Ratchet stilled his hand and let Bluestreak adjust. “Some only enjoy the probe within the distal third of the spike. Says the sensations are too intense farther in,” he explained. “I’m going to move the rod a little.”

                  Bluestreak thought that meant the medic was going to withdraw it and thrust back and forth a few times. What Ratchet actually did was essentially stir the probe within the channel, pressing firmly against the walls and stimulating that deep place within Bluestreak’s spike that he had been uncertain about.

                  Well, he wasn’t uncertain any longer. His fingers clenched into fists and his head fell back as he groaned, a bolt of pleasure shooting up his backstrut. It was a good thing he had locked his joints; otherwise he would have instinctually shoved his hips forward and probably impaled himself far too deeply onto the probe. He suddenly got why Ratchet was being so careful.

                  “Good. Oh, that’s _good,_ Ratch,” Bluestreak choked out.

                  He couldn’t see it, but he practically _felt_ Ratchet’s grin. “Yeah, I can see that. Looks like you enjoy it when it’s deep, huh?”

                  Ratchet continued stirring, and Bluestreak felt as if his spike was lighting up from the inside out. His arms jerked against their bonds in an attempt to move, the sensation too much to just sit still for.

                   “Ye…yeah. More!”

                   “Will do. Gonna move to the next size up, so this one is coming out, all right?” Ratchet warned. He stopped circling the probe and instead withdrew it with a steady pull. Bluestreak missed its presence almost immediately and he barely stopped his protesting whine as the rod was removed completely. Fortunately, Ratchet already had the next one ready and it slipped in the lubricant covering his spike head, quickly finding its way into the now well-slicked channel.

                   “Nngh,” Bluestreak moaned as it slid in a few inches. This probe was definitely bigger than the last, fitting nearly perfectly inside his transfluid passage. It rubbed against the interior mesh lining, stimulating sensors in the distal half of his spike. A minor tremble started up in his legs as he strained against his own joint locks, both needing more of the sensation and wanting to move away from it.

                   “Going deep now,” Ratchet announced quietly, after letting Bluestreak adjust to the penetration.

                   Bluestreak ventilated heavily, somehow finding the strength to nod weakly. “… k.”

                   More carefully than the last time, Ratchet pushed the sound inward, slowly, but inexorably. Blinded, and doorwing sensors confused by a lingering sensitivity, Bluestreak’s entire concentration became focused on the torturous progression of the probe. The deeper it went, the more pleasure rolled through him, and he had no other sensory input with which to distract himself.

                   Ratchet would pause occasionally, withdraw the sound somewhat and then push forward again. Bluestreak’s trembling became more pronounced, until the chains from the ceiling began rattling in their moorings.

                   “Almost there, Blue. You’re doing well. The probe can only go so far; eventually it’s going to nudge up against the opening to your transfluid tank. There’s quite a lot of sensors in that opening; it’s part of the reason why it feels so good when your spike overloads,” Ratchet explained, slowing the sound’s progression to a crawl.

                   Bluestreak heard his mentor speak as if from a distance, too focused on the building sensation within the base of his spike. It felt like someone had taken his nub, stretched it out and lined the interior of his spike with it. And Ratchet was slowly drawing his fingers over it again and again.

                    “There,” Ratchet announced, his hand finally stilling. “There’s the opening.”

                    Bluestreak didn’t need Ratchet to tell him that. The streaks of bliss shooting through his body was proof enough. He understood now why some mechs couldn’t stand this sensation. It was incredibly intense. He wanted to writhe, to ride the feeling out, but he was well and truly immobilized.

                    “Oh, Primus. Primus, Ratchet, please…” Bluestreak panted as Ratchet slowly turned the probe to the left and then back to the right, stroking that deep spot within Bluestreak.

                    “Please what?” Ratchet asked, oh so innocently.

                    “Please just… ngh… I’m gonna… I’m gonna die, please!” Bluestreak pled, nearly delirious with the pleasure. Was the damn spot wired directly into his sensory hub?!

                    Ratchet, the aft that he was, just laughed. “You’re not going to die, you overgrown sparkling. You think this is good? This is nothing.”

                    He began twirling the rod back and forth, much more rapidly this time, all the while pressing gently against the tip of the sound to keep it snugged up against Bluestreak’s tank opening. Bluestreak practically shrieked, arms jerking fitfully against his cuffs.

                    “NNGH! Ra-aatch!”

                    “Think you’re ready for the next size up?” Ratchet asked, raising his voice to be heard over Bluestreak’s noises. “You’re probably all nicely loosened up in here.”

                     He was going to die, Bluestreak was sure of it. Ratchet stirred the probe like he did with the first one, and Bluestreak threw his head back and wailed. He accidentally bit his glossa during a particular violent thrash and energon welled up in his mouth. While unpleasant a taste, it helped center himself a little, instead of drowning in the sensations his spike was experiencing.

                     “Yup. I think you’re ready.”

                     Ratchet began pulling the sound out, teasingly thrusting backwards every now and then until it was out completely. Bluestreak missed its presence immediately and wordlessly whined a protest.

                     “Shh, Blue. Here’s the next one. Very still now, alright?” Ratchet cautioned, something blunt nudging the head of Bluestreak’s spike.

                     His cries quieted and then faded away completely as he tensed in anticipation. As the rod breached him, he bit his lower lip, hard. More energon met his glossa, but he didn’t care. He had to distance himself somehow; it was just so _much_.  

                     Bluestreak thought at first that Ratchet was teasing him with how slowly he was inserting the probe. But the more it slid inwards, the more Bluestreak realized that Ratchet was just being extremely cautious. The thing felt huge, and his channel ached from where it stretched around the unyielding surface. Despite how much lubricant Ratchet had used, the movement of the sound burned with an unrelenting friction. It hurt, teaching Bluestreak a new threshold for pain.

                     And he loved every minute of it.

                     The deeper the rod went, the louder Bluestreak became. Moans and cries dripped from between his lips, encouragements and curses mixed in. He didn’t think he was all that coherent, but fortunately, Ratchet was well versed in pleasure-maddened Bluestreak-speak.

                     “How’s that feel?” Ratchet inquired, gently pushing the probe that last inch to seat it completely within Bluestreak’s channel.

                     Bluestreak merely moaned weakly, head lolling on his shoulders. He felt like he was going to overload, hovering right at that knife edge of impending bliss. But he couldn’t seem to tip over; he wasn’t sure if he even wanted to.

                     “Good, I bet,” Ratchet murmured. “You know, I still got one or two more tricks. You should probably open your optics for them; I think you’re going to want to watch.”

                      “… blindfold,” Bluetreak whispered, it taking longer than it should to remind Ratchet why his suggestion wasn’t actually possible.

                      “What blindfold? Open your optics, Blue,” Ratchet encouraged, several damp fingers gently patting Bluestreak’s cheek.

                      Bluestreak did as instructed, expected to see nothing but black. Instead, he winced away from the ceiling light directly overhead, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. When had Ratchet even…?

                      “That’s it. Come on now,” Ratchet said quietly. “Look down.”

                       Easier said than done, especially with Ratchet making tiny little thrusting motions with the probe. Sparks were shooting down Bluestreak’s legs, his entire pelvis feeling like it was encased in viscous hot oil.

                       But Bluestreak steeled his strength and managed to lift his head vertical before letting it fall forward. He rested his chin on his chest and looked down at his interface equipment, willing his visual sensors to focus.

                       Once he did, he whined deep in the back of his throat, engine roaring with a surge of pure lust. His spike was cupped in Ratchet’s hand, the tip pointing up at the ceiling in a 90 degree angle. Only the very tip of a silver rod, just long enough for Ratchet’s forefinger and thumb to grasp, protruded from the end of his spike. The entire length bulged obscenely.

                      “Oh, slag,” Bluestreak whimpered. “Oh, my Primus… holy _fuck_ …”

                      Ratchet chuckled. “You’ve been hanging around with the twins too much if you’re picking up that kind of language,” he commented, ever so carefully turning the sound one way and then the next. Bluestreak made a noise that sounded like a dying organic rabbit, earning a look of pleased surprise from Ratchet.

                      “You… you’re gonna kill me,” Bluestreak whined, trying to jerk his hips forward.

                      “Again… you’re not going to die. But…” Ratchet began, carefully repositioning the hand that was cupping Bluestreak’s spike. “… if you were, what a way to go, right?”

                      Ratchet’s fingers slid across Bluestreak’s engorged spike, gripping it firmly in the cradle of his digits and palm. A very gentle squeeze made Bluestreak gasp out a blistering curse, his fingers clenching so tightly that his wrists ached.

                       “All right, Blue. I know you like being on the edge, but it’s time for my final trick. Scream as loud as you’d like.”

                       Bluestreak automatically tensed at his mentor’s words, wondering what else Ratchet could possible do to push Bluestreak even further into a pleasure fueled madness. Then Ratchet lightened his grip a bit and began stroking Bluestreak’s spike. Up and then down, with a little squeeze to the base that made Bluestreak’s vision go blurry.  

                       Ah. So _that’s_ what he could do.

                       Ratchet’s other hand gripped the rod and began pulling it out, simultaneously sliding his other hand back down Bluestreak’s spike. The added stimulation on the outer dermal lining of his spike was enough to make Bluestreak throw his head back and shout, his arms futility yanking at his bonds.

                       The delicious torture continued, Bluestreak’s arousal increasing exponentially with every passing second. His entire pelvis felt as if it were on fire, a molten heat which spun in little tight circles at the base of his spike. It built and built, Bluestreak’s shouts turning into shrill screams as his entire frame quaked under the onslaught of sensation.

                       “Please!” he begged after a particularly hard squeeze to the base of his spike made his spark lurch within his chest. “Please, finish it! Or sss… stop! Oh, Primus, it hurts, Ratch, _please_!!”

                        Ratchet began stroking Bluestreak’s spike faster, the rod now moving in counterpoint. It felt like every withdrawal dragged part of his transfluid lining up with it, the friction becoming almost too much to bear. It was good, but it did actually hurt as well, a confusing mix of input that Bluestreak didn’t know how to handle any more.

                        “Oh, I’m not stopping,” Ratchet murmured, leaning forward to kiss Bluestreak’s jaw. “If you want to finish then go ahead. I can’t wait to see it actually. Overload, Blue. Overload _hard_ for me. I want to see you spurt all over the floor. I’ll probably make you kneel and lick it up later while I take your sweet little valve, but don’t let that stop you.”

                        His mentor’s words slithered into Bluestreak’s audials like a live thing, low and dark and commanding. Whimpering loudly, Bluestreak nodded, nearly delirious with pleasure.

                        “I want… I… www…want to so _badly_ , Master,” he cried, writhing as best as he could. “Help me!”

                        “Of course, sweetspark,” Ratchet crooned in reply. “I’ll help you; all you had to do was ask.”

                        He began withdrawing the rod once more, his other hand stroking faster. Bluestreak dropped his head back down to his chest, too tired to hold it up any longer. His optics fixated on the sound held between Ratchet’s fingers, the silver metal emerging from Bluestreak’s channel shiny and slick.  

                        The rod seemed to be endless as Ratchet continued to pull it, the sensitive lining of his channel adhering to it so that it felt as if his spike was turning inside out. The pressure in the base of his spike built and built, Ratchet’s hand squeezing and twisting Bluestreak into a mess of raw neuro lines.

                         Bluestreak embraced it fully, his engine stuttering fitfully and chest moving rapidly with every ventilation. “Please,” he whispered brokenly. “Oh, please… Master… so close, _please_.”

                         “Almost there, Blue,” Ratchet encouraged. “Almost…”

                        Ratchet regripped the rod lower down as more and more of it emerged. Then with a clatter, it was gone, removed and discarded onto the floor. Bluestreak gaped down at the sound, one blunt end winking up at him in the overhead lights. His processor didn’t have time to calculate how just how wide it was because Ratchet took hold of Bluestreak’s spike at the base and squeezed, slowly dragging his fingers upwards.

                        As if tied to Ratchet’s digits, Bluestreak’s overload came with them. He threw his head back with a choked scream as transfluid finally, _finally_ , erupted out of his spike, burning the lining of his channel as it squirted up out of his tank. Small little helpless jerks of his hips pushed more and liquid out of him in what seemed like endless spurts. Ratchet continued to roughly stroke him, murmuring encouragements against Bluestreak’s audial, his hot ex-vents ghosting along the edge of his still sensitive chevron.

                     He was drowning in bliss, pain layered under pleasure, layered under pain and back again until Bluestreak couldn’t tell what part of him hurt and what part of him thrummed with surging charge. His HUD flashed a list of warnings at him, all of which he shunted aside; he was with the best medic this side of the galaxy, after all. Ratchet wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

                    Well. Not permanently.

                    Bluestreak flew high for what seemed like forever, but eventually his body gave up, and he abruptly fell offline into a welcoming darkness.

                    He recovered quickly. When he next opened his optics, Ratchet was wheeling the medical cart aside, the sound no longer laying in a pool of slick on the floor. Bluestreak was hanging limply from his chains, glad for the first time to be bound so thoroughly. His shoulders wouldn’t appreciate it in the morning, but for now, they could take the majority of his weight.  

                    His entire frame buzzed pleasantly, his spike aching. When he looked down, he observed it nearly sunk completely back into its sheath with only the head peeping out. The poor thing looked as exhausted as Bluestreak felt.

                    “How are you feeling, Blue?” Ratchet asked softly, coming back over. He stopped short of actually touching Bluestreak, observing him quietly and letting him sort out his frame without any added stimulation. Bluestreak was grateful for the reprieve.

                    He tried to respond but ended up coughing instead. He rebooted his vocalizer, finding it a bit raw after his screaming fit. “I’m good.”

                    “Did I break you?” Ratchet inquired, raising an orbital ridge and crossing his arms over his chest.  

                    “A little. Thanks. I needed it,” Bluestreak admitted. It had been glorious to just let go and let Ratchet take care of him.

                    Ratchet merely grinned smugly. “My pleasure. Do you think Jazz will like it?”

                    Bluestreak rested the side of his head against one arm, regarding the medic. “He’s gonna _love_ it. I can’t wait to do this to him. Let me go so you can tell me the specifics of the things I probably missed while you were melting my processor.”

                    His mentor’s smile widened. “Oh, I’ll untie you… but we’re not done yet. There’s still a mess you need to clean up,” he said, scuffing a pede on the floor and bringing Bluestreak’s attention to the streaks of transfluid on the decking. “And a certain spike in need of some care.”

                    Ratchet dropped his hand to stroke his red interface panel, Bluestreak’s optics automatically following the motion of his mentor’s fingers.

                    “Yeah, ok,” Bluestreak replied faintly, his port calipers fluttering restlessly at the suggestion. “There’s always later.”

 _Much_ later. After he gave his mentor a _very_ appreciative thank you for the amazing experience he’d just had.  

 

~ End


End file.
